


Flak

by storylinecontinuum



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical Hetalia, WWII, not too graphic, warning for weird nation injury healing, you can interpret their relationship as you wish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24306118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storylinecontinuum/pseuds/storylinecontinuum
Summary: The first gunfire that ever killed her was flak.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Flak

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read, I want to say that I'm not using the canon nyo nations in this story. I've written it using my own designs and characterization which you can read more about [here ](https://historihet.tumblr.com/post/614683118465646592/my-version-of-nyo-england-in-service-dress) and [here ](https://historihet.tumblr.com/post/617734341915820032/i-really-enjoyed-your-nyo-england-design-any), if you're interested of course. I've tried sticking as close to historical reality as possible but as usual some things might have slipped me.
> 
> You'll find historical background info in the end notes.

**1942, England**

Her eyes scanned the last of the document as she ground her cigar into the ashtray, nostrils twitching for the dying vestiges of its tangy scent. She was starting to get used to the box-pressed variety. Though her frequent indulgence could be seen as a gross frivolity in light of the rationing that was slowly draining the spirit of her people. But in the end she had her sources and nobody could blame her for that.

One final look approved the document for the pile at her elbow and she turned to face the colonel idling at the foot of her desk with a folder in his hands.

“Well? What do you have for me.”

The meek-faced man didn’t even twitch at her tone. Instead he moved forward smartly to deposit the folder in front of her.

“This arrived from the Ministry of Information this morning.” he informed with a small nod. “The censors thought you might want to take a look at it.”

He moved back to a respectful distance as she scowled at the piece of stationery. She was already itching for another cigar. Which is why there was a fresh one smoldering in her hand before she’d even reached for the folder.

The Ministry of Information had no business expecting her to make any decisions for them. She was mired in work as it was, dammit. Not to mention it was her very own existence that entitled the people working there to their special training. If this was some rookie getting cold feet after finding himself with a personification on film she would find ample time to chew someone out. Preferably someone in charge who didn’t deserve it.

Taking a deep breath of her cigar, she leaned forward and propped her elbows on the mahogany surface. The colonel took this as a sign to leave and strolled out of the room. There was a benefit to working with a limited entourage of officers – they got used to her quirks quickly and committed them to memory.

She moved to flip the front of the folder open and the first thing that greeted her was a typewritten note relaying that the photograph she could see peeking from underneath had already been deemed inappropriate to publish.

An angry puff of smoke signaled her dismay. They were expecting her to review gone-by decisions. Someone at the Ministry was really begging for a good dressing-down.

But then her hand moved to slide the note aside and she stared as the photograph underneath was revealed.

This was… interesting alright.

Five pilots in their brown leather jackets grinned up at her from what seemed like a candid shot. Their arms served as a makeshift platform where a figure laid on its side, beaming just as brightly with its head propped on one hand as if it was in some cheery beach photoshoot.

The light drab of their uniforms suggested someplace in North Africa and sure enough as England flipped the photograph the scribbled date and location confirmed this.

A flicker of amusement curved her lips around the cigar. There was little doubt why the Ministry had decided to stop the photo from being published. As for why they had forwarded it to her, she had a pretty good hunch: It was an indignant plea of sorts, a request for her to do something about such blatant violation of protocol.

England could sympathize with them. Making sure no nation captured on film appeared in any printed form available to the public was a painstaking job. It would cause a lot of headaches in a lot of places if someone were to one day assemble enough photographic evidence of random people that didn’t age. A particularly explosive scandal if those people were associated with the military.

Hence many countries had to turn camera-shy very quickly. But not all of them apparently.

England reached for the phone as her eyes stayed on the photo.

“Put me through to Steeple Morden.” She spoke into the handset and took a decadent drag of her cigar.

It took some time to get the necessary person on the phone and she occupied herself by endeavoring to extend her smoke’s lifetime. Finally the static gave way to a familiar bubbly voice and it was as though the room had taken a breath of crisp air.

“England? That you?”

What do you know, she actually sounded enthusiastic about it. England grimaced.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking America.”

“That’s good to know! So what’s up?”

The corner of England’s mouth twitched and she shuffled the folder, note and photograph in front of her.

“There’s a photograph here that I thought you might want to tell me more about.”

“Hm? What kind?”

“The _bad_ kind.” England emphasized. “The one you shouldn’t be in.”

There was hesitation on the other side and England decided to be helpful.

“You and your buddies?” She prompted. “North Africa?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“America, you should be steering clear of journalists.”

The edge of the cigar tapped against the expensive desk, sprinkling it with ashes. 

“Right.” That was all the acknowledgement she got before America barreled on. “Hey, you think you could keep that one for me? I think the boys will really appreciate it.”

Oh no.

This was not how this conversation was going to go.

England took a steadying breath and leaned forward in her seat.

“America how many of those men do you think will survive their tour?” She asked, keeping her tone conversational.

America was silent for a moment.

“… What do you mean?”

Ah, the glee of being on the offensive.

“I mean,” England said slowly. “How many of those men do you think will live to see the end of the war? I know this is your first war poppet,“ An energetic tap of her fingers splashed another trail of ash across the desk. “But I wouldn’t get too attached to the human personnel.”

The rage and indignation that followed her words were almost palpable through the receiver. England waited as she listened to the furious silence she was well familiar with.

“Fuck you, England.” Came the response and she couldn’t hold back a grin. She didn’t wait for the sound of a handset being slammed on the other side before calmly putting her own back to its housing.

**late 1944, France**

The old study had smelled of dust and dried mud when they’d first moved in but now the smell of cigars and gasoline was starting to set in. Getting used to a new base of operations was by now as painless as that brief moment of transitioning between sleep and wakefulness in the morning and the army moved like a well-oiled machine as it inched across Europe.

And in her new temporary headquarters, England was experiencing a sort of déjà vu.

A colonel – a different one this time – was standing there waiting for her response, the collar of his shirt slightly crooked just like the angle of his head.

England frowned. To this day she could still smell the curiosity coming off her officers whenever matters connected to nationhood came up. Oddly enough, it was only ever the higher ups. Middle ranks had the exceptional skill of shrugging off their existence. Just went to show where priorities of each lay…

“You’re saying he has no orders?” She asked, hope tinging her words.

The colonel shrugged.

“He has to have something. He did get this far.” The look he gave her weighed with meaning. She grumbled in response.

Outside the pattering steps of men unloading cargo beat out a steady rhythm and for once she wanted to lose herself in that familiar monotony but alas, the world had other plans.

“All right,” she caved in. “I’ll see him.”

She pulled away from the window that framed the ordered chaos outside, and walked out into the busy hall, the colonel close at her heels.

The picture they found there hung somewhere between pathetic and amusing:

In the midst of the hubbub, a boyish American officer stood squeezing his already chewed up looking crush cap and worrying his lip. He was fidgeting something awful and looking anywhere but the direction of the office as if expecting someone to appear from the walls or the floor. England almost felt bad for him. She tried to plaster a smile on her face and patiently reminded herself to refrain from making any comments about how the mighty air force pilot looked about ready to filch a plane and fly back to Britain.

“Lieutenant,” she called to catch his attention, making sure to enunciate the ‘f’.

The boy (because they were boys, all of them) startled horribly, his shoulders seeming to grow smaller under the leather jacket. His eyes raked over England with a look that implied his worst fears had come to pass.

“Sir,” he began, his voice admirably controlled. But the dull panic in his eyes spoiled the impression.

England frowned as she inspected him once again. She had a feeling she’d seen him before.

Before she could ask him about it however, he broke her gaze and began to rummage around his pockets, faltering a little at the buttoned flaps before retracting his hand to reveal a pair of thinly rimmed spectacles.

England watched his back stiffen as he steeled himself to speak. Then it all tumbled out of him.

With a few valiant attempts at mustering the southern charm his accent suggested, he told her all about how he was from a certain Major Jones’ squadron, how they’d been caught off guard by a flock of Fw 190’s on their way back to base and how it had distracted them from the flak batteries stationed below. Jones’ plane had crashed nose-first in a field, just inside allied territory. The glasses were the only thing they’d been able to retrieve from the crash.

England listened with amusement as he told his story. He was still holding America’s glasses – the Lone Star State of Texas, she thought wryly – at an awkward distance from his body as though he were handling a live shell.

“Don’t worry lieutenant,” she assured him after he finished. “No head will be sprouting from those spectacles anytime soon.”

She took the glasses from him and made a passing note of their pristine condition. Her worries had been unfounded. As horrifying as what the lieutenant had just told her probably was to humans, it was hardly something to be concerned about.

“I hope you like cars as much as you like planes, lieutenant.” England said as she tucked Texas into her breast pocket. “We’re about to go for a drive.”

___

The sky looked particularly unreadable that day, she noted as she stared up from the open-top jeep. They were passing through a garrison stationed near the site of the crash and the soldiers that had stopped their vehicle for inspection were still having a hard time processing her appearance. They would turn alternating quizzical looks at the orderly behind the wheel but the man just stared longingly at the pack of cigarettes under the windshield.

Another jeep of officers waited behind the first and they all looked similarly unperturbed (if a bit annoyed) except for the pale American at the back seat. Eventually the fact of so many superiors acting in a way that suggested normalcy overruled any lick of common sense and the soldiers let them through. 'I bet it doesn’t get weirder than that,' England caught one of them mutter to the other.

The site was just twenty minutes away from there.

They followed the lieutenant’s instructions to find the exact spot and while the others pretended to inspect the crash from afar, sheltered in the safety of their vehicles, England didn't waste a minute before climbing out of her jeep. Mud greeted her boots, ankle-deep, and she had to make sure the greatcoat draped over her shoulders wasn’t touching any of it.

Her footsteps squelched as she made her way to the shallow crater. Behind her, she could hear the reluctant movement of the men getting out to follow her.

Once at the edge of the crater she leaned forward to avoid crouching in the loose mud and there, at the bottom, lay the sad remains of what was once a Mustang. As expected it was untouched. The members of America’s squadron had been so horrified by the thought that their incompetence had somehow gotten their country killed that they’d kept clear of the site. That’s what she’d gathered from the lieutenant’s tale and it seemed he hadn’t been exaggerating.

The lieutenant himself stood a good ways behind and had once again taken to abusing his unfortunate cap. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink since the accident and it was probably the case. It hadn’t taken her long to realize he was one of the men she’d seen in that photo two years back. Judging by that same photo, America was very close to her fellow squadron members – evident by their identical jacket art – and England could only reaffirm her own words to her back then. It wasn’t just their own sanity that countries could preserve by avoiding such attachments.

But that was a topic for another time.

England squinted the heap of charred metal. There had been a fair amount of luck propping America’s wings so far – not a single crash had figured in the reports that regularly reached England’s desk, but it seemed that when luck abandoned you, it had a flair for the dramatic.

Despite what the lieutenant had said in his report, it seemed the plane had hit the ground at an angle and as a result its nose had broken off instead of being squashed into the cockpit. One of the wings however had collided with the field in a way that had sent it curling inwards.

And a piece of that same wing was currently preventing the struggling body inside from stitching itself back together.

England gave a wry smile at the sight. It was a surprisingly clean job. It looked like the muscles and organs had been trying to stitch themselves together until they had discovered the obstacle in their way and regeneration had been brought to a standstill.

She pursed her lips in thought. The issue would sort itself out eventually but…

Looking up, she ran her eyes over the horizon. In the near distance the clouds glowed with flak.

No. It wouldn’t do to wait.

Digging her weight into the mud below, she found purchase on one of the protruding sheets of metal and jostled it around until she felt something in the tangle give way. An ear-splitting screeching filled the air and England kept pushing until she found the right angle and the troublesome piece was dislodged from its position, dragged out by the rest of the wing it was connected to.

Silence settled in again and England moved back a few steps, satisfied with her work. The only thing to do now was to wait for the right processes to run their course. Some callous part of her felt a twinge of irritation at the menial work required but she squashed it by playing with a loose thread on her cuff.

Minutes trickled by. The men behind her had gone so quiet she thought they might have stopped breathing. Then, rising over the irregular wind and occasional bird calls, a new set of noises made itself known and one by one, pieces of metal and Plexiglas shifted and fell away until a few glimpses of dirty skin were revealed. Like something out of a tacky horror film, an arm extended out from the scrap and grabbed for purchase in the upturned soil.

Some of the men began to cough to cover more unfortunate noises.

The body extracted itself from the crash, collecting soot and grime along the way, skin breaking upon contact with jagged metal. At that point the humans couldn’t take anymore and turned away - not even the most morbid human curiosity could endure in the face of such blatant fracturing of natural law.

America stood to her full height in front of England.

“Welcome back.” England nodded, trying and failing to keep the note of amusement out of her voice. Urged by some furtive instinct, she checked the other for any more serious damage and was happy to find none. At least on the surface.

She shrugged to dislodge the greatcoat from her back and swung it over America’s bony bare shoulders. With that, the last remnants of some sort of spell were broken and they walked together to the jeep.

By the time they got there the orderly was already cranking up the engine and the rest of the officers were filing into their own vehicle. As England settled into her seat she noticed the young lieutenant in the rear view mirror. He had recovered some of his color but more notable was the crush cap, triumphantly perched on his head.

Normally one would expect a more acute reaction from them. But this was another basic human response – in an unfamiliar situation, turn to those who are more experienced and emulate their behavior. England hadn’t indicated there being anything unusual about the accident so the humans were taking it in stride as well.

It was a fascinating thing, really. She saw it happen time and time again: the soldiers at the checkpoint, the officers in the jeeps, the censors briefed on their duties and not just when it pertained to nation matters as well. The most dire war conditions would be supplied with routines and procedures that restored a feeling of everyday life in what felt like overnight. She had to admit, humans adapted much faster than nations. Their short lifespans didn’t allow for anything else.

As they drove across the uneven terrain, England stole glances at the sullen figure beside her. America was quiet, her hands clasped around the edges of the coat, keeping it closed for the minimal modesty it provided. Under the weak afternoon light and the dirt, her caramel tan looked ashen. 

There were many things England wanted to say to her. She wanted to tell her how idiotic it was of her to decide to climb the ranks just when fighting was most vicious and weapons could reduce you to molecules. How stupid it was to have spent so long, in all her hubris, scoffing at England’s penchant for getting her hands dirty, only to choose the worst time to do so herself.

But she said nothing. When she looked at the other sitting quietly next to her, she only saw the set jaw and blank eyes.

It was never nice to come back from the void. England knew that.

So they spent the drive back in silence under a meek sky that was quickly growing dark. When they passed through the garrison, England watched a ten dollar bill exchange hands between the two soldiers that had stopped them for inspection earlier.

For weeks after that, England kept a close eye on America. Though perhaps it was more correct to say that she kept a _closer_ eye on America than usual.

The girl had predictably gone back to her squadron as soon she’d been able to. It didn’t worry England too much – she was sure America had all her wits about her again when she asked to have Texas back. But then the reports started coming in.

Inconspicuous at first until they started piling up.

One crash during a bomber escort mission to a factory near the front line. One during a strafing operation of an airfield that had luckily been overrun by their infantry soon after. Three instances of a parachute not opening after abandoning the aircraft. A total of eight planes torn to pieces – either by flak or enemy fighter machine gun fire.

England found herself at a loss. Whatever she’d been expecting after retrieving America from that field, it hadn’t been this. The girl had become bold and that was putting it mildly.

And despite the losses, her efficiency hadn’t seemed to have dropped in the least. Victory marks would sprout like fungi on any plane she chose to fly and it seemed to keep her superiors quiet about the fact that they worked with a freshly revived corpse every other week. But England knew America and she knew she wasn’t doing this under any kind of pressure from above. You couldn’t force America to do anything.

How unfortunate for England that she would face that fact personally very soon.

“What do you mean you’re not coming to Berlin?”

England fixed her eyes on America, sitting across from her on the other side of a patched-up table littered with maps. The latter didn’t look up as she played with the discarded headset in her hands. The base they were in had been surrendered in a hurry as was the case for most of them these days.

“I’ve got other stuff to do.” She shrugged.

“America, that is the offensive that’s going to end the war!”

The nation in question straightened to shoot England a tepid glare.

“The war in Europe you mean.” She raised a brow.

England felt herself flush.

Right. Japan and her bloody stubbornness.

“Even so,” England pressed. “What could be more important than keeping a check on Russia?”

That seemed to have been the right thing to say. It was like a jolt ran through America.

“Exactly!” She cried and all but jumped in her seat, slapping the table under her elbow in a bout of showmanship that animated all her limbs.

“That’s exactly the question we should be asking.” She pointed a finger at England and got up, all gangly and swinging, vibrating with untapped energy, to pace around the room.

“I don’t think I catch your drift-” England began before being interrupted again as was wont to happen with America.

“We don’t need to keep a check on them.” America gesticulated. “We need to keep an edge over them.”

She leaned over the table staring straight at England from behind her glasses. England found herself both unamused and discomfited by it.

“There’s an operation in the works,” America continued. “I can’t tell you too much about it but we’re going after German air tech.”

England huffed. Well that was hardly a surprise.

“And what, pray tell, does that that have to do with you?”

“I’m always where my planes are at.” America replied without hesitation.

England had to do a double take at ‘my’. How quickly America was getting used to appropriating other people’s toys. England supposed she should be proud.

“Besides,” America hurried to add. “The war is pretty much done anyways.”

“You mean the war in Europe.” England teased and got a pout in reply. “That’s chiasmus by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” America waved her off. “I’ve got Japan covered.”

Nothing about that statement should have been inherently ominous but it still struck as such for some reason. England scratched the base of her neck. It was as if someone was blowing hot air against it. Truth be told, she’d felt off-kilter from the very start of their meeting, the first one since the crash site, and she couldn’t help but feel that she didn’t have her usual sense for reading America and her behavior. Even though nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary…

“Do you wanna know what it’s called?” The other asked, breaking her out of her thoughts.

“Hmm?” England murmured, caught off guard once again.

“The operation. Do you wanna know what we’re calling it?”

England’s fingers beat out a rhythm on the map in front of her, taking turns to tap the occupied German forests and fields.

“Will it stop you from telling me if I said no?”

America’s grin was sufficient answer to that. 

“It’s Operation LUSTY.”

England flinched.

“That’s an acronym by the way.”

 _Bollocks_.

Their conversation tapered off after that as England pretended to study the maps under her fingers. After a while America broke the silence again, a dreamy quality to her voice that almost made it sound subdued.

“Have you seen it?” She asked, heedless of the fact that England was trying to ignore her. “The 262?”

Unbidden, the image of the German jet fighter materialized in England’s mind. She failed to see how it could elicit that tone but she also couldn’t deny having been there herself. Talking of her ships as though she were referring to a lover.

“God, if I’ve ever seen a gorgeous bird… I guarantee you I’ll be the first to get my hands on that plane.” She heard America say.

England didn’t deign her with a response.

Later, when she went outside to catch some fresh air she found that it couldn’t chase away the storm in her thoughts. For the first time since setting foot on the continent she felt the need to fidget. It was only the image of the pasty lieutenant inflicting medieval torture on his cap that stopped her from indulging the impulse.

God, how had she allowed herself to run out of cigars at a time like this?

From under the lee of a bombed-out hangar, surrounded by a small entourage of guards, a few German soldiers gave her curious blue-eyed looks.

England couldn’t make sense of it. America was the same she had always been, in all respects. The rumpled uniform, the childish mood swings, the clumsy way she adjusted her glasses on her nose, the exasperating optimism.

Nothing was different. Nothing.

Except for everything.

The fact that America could keep being herself in this war – her first war – so much so that it seemed to exaggerate her character stung when England admitted to herself that she hadn’t anticipated that at all. She’d known it was inevitable and she couldn't lie to and tell herself she believed the war would break America. But something about how quickly she had embraced it rubbed England the wrong way.

Despairingly, she looked up at the overcast sky. The clouds above were gliding by as if they were rushing toward Berlin and the end of the war. Or maybe they were already passing over it and heading toward what was beyond.

In the end she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d lost some kind of higher ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. Although the race toward Berlin was mostly between the Soviets, the allied leaders did initially urge their armies into moving toward the city. The advance was eventually halted in mid-April, just a 100 kilometers away from the German capital. The reason for it was that they were already far beyond the borders of the Western occupation zones outlined at the Yalta Conference in February of the same year. Ironically some of the German units in Berlin fought westward to the very end in order to surrender to the Allies instead of the Soviets.
> 
> 2\. Operation LUSTY was the codename given to the combined effort of the USAAF to capture and study German aircraft, research facilities and technical and scientific reports. It received its name in April 1945, although exploitation intelligence had been hard at work long before that. The name itself is indeed an acronym: LUftwaffe Secret TechnologY, though one that’s a bit of a stretch if you ask me.
> 
> 3\. The Messerschmitt ME 262 was the world’s first operational jet-powered fighter plane. It joined the war efforts in mid-1944 as the most advanced aircraft of the time. The Germans went to great lengths to ensure the 262 didn’t fall into enemy hands but the first intact one was captured in March 1945 when its German pilot willingly flew it in Allied territory (his hometown had already surrendered and he was planning to return to his family).


End file.
